


It's More Than I Can Stand

by singswithtrees



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Gen, M/M, Melodrama, continued caterwauling, extra-scruffy jagermonsters, general silly fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2018-10-31 14:37:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10901400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singswithtrees/pseuds/singswithtrees
Summary: So, I guess this is kind of a sequel-ish sort of thing to "ROXANNE!" and Gnomeskillet's piece "You Don't Have to Put on That Red Light".  It's the next day, Dimo's having strange and unfamiliar feelings of wanting to stay in town, and can't find a pen to save his life.Also kind of rough so far--I just finished it, and wanted to get it up, so please be kind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gnomeskillet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnomeskillet/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You Don't Have to Put on the Red Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9390743) by [Gnomeskillet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnomeskillet/pseuds/Gnomeskillet). 



That damned song got stuck in your head really easily. He’d made his big, grand move, and it had been almost too much. The pleading edge to the barista’s voice had shown him that, and while the blushing had been damned adorable, he didn’t want to totally fuck everything up beyond any chance of getting more than a scowl or a flirty and irritated glance when Maxim thought he wasn’t looking. Was it that serious? He had no idea, but it sure as hell seemed that way, and Dimo wasn’t one to pull something like that and leave. He was going to follow through today--he just didn’t know how in the hell he was going to pull it off without Maxim’s coworkers noticing and giving him even more grief about him than they had yesterday.

Dimo was still humming the bridge to the song as he went through his brief morning ritual the next day. Growling half-awake at the alarm clock, he dragged himself from the bed, not bothering to make it up once he was out. He stumbled into his clothes--same as yesterday, but different shirt to make it look like a different outfit--and gave his hair a compulsory swipe through with one hand. He was wearing a hat over it, so as far as he was concerned, it didn’t need to be all that tidy today. The case for his fiddle sat on the desk where he’d left it. Even though he knew everything would be just where he’d left it, Dimo still took care to go over each thing in the case, making certain that the instrument was ready for the day’s performance, that there were still a few sample CDs in their faded slidepacks. He’d eventually have to burn some more, but they hadn’t sold terribly well of late, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that he didn’t always remember to put them out.

It had reached the level of whistling by the time that he sauntered down to Mamma Gkika’s, and Dimo caught himself, not wanting to look quite that smug. Today he was trying to make a good impression, not just an impression of any shape or form, and that would require a more dextrous and delicate handling that yesterday. While he was still far enough down the block that he wasn’t about to mar the morning coffee with the smell of tobacco, he stopped to roll himself a cigarette and have a bit of nicotine to start the day off.

It wasn’t a bad town, he mused. Even in the light drizzle that was coming down today, it still had enough to make him want to stop and explore, and get to know it all in more depth. In the past, that desire to linger was generally his prompt to make other plans and continue on to the next destination that he had enough cash for, but here...here he was halfway tempted to make it different. Just to stay for an extra week. Just to see what would happen. And if it didn’t work out, there was always the next bus. And if it did…

If it did, he wasn’t sure, and he decided that maybe he didn’t need to think about that right this instant. He had an audience to entertain, and some genuine courage that he needed to dredge up from under all the posturing and easy charm. If a date happened, he’d figure things out from that point. Improvisation! Improvisation, and not thinking about what would happen if he was successful beyond what he thought he could reasonably hope for.

When he did push the door to the coffee shop open and breathe in the invigorating aroma, Dimo tried to look as chill and nonchalant as he could. He didn’t want Maxim to just want to hide in the back room and have nothing to do with him right now, after all. He acted like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and perused the pastries on offer that morning, though from the look on the barista’s face, he was taking way longer than he had any reason to. After he’d paid and received the customary lineface look from Maxim, he went to his usual place outside, coffee in hand, and scarfed down his pastry before setting up his performance space. Once the sign was at the properly readable level and the crumbs were brushed off his hands for the pigeons to come and fight over, Dimo started the day’s music.

“Roxanne” was not on the bill, no matter how much his usual customers badgered and asked about when he and the handsome barista were going to be performing again together. He smiled and nodded and was his usual charming self, but today he focused on the music, and picking things that were more his usual fare. When Maxim’s break came around, and Dimo saw the barista’s friend Agatha glancing out the window expectantly at him, he only nodded with a friendly smile to the young lady, and continued with his current song. There was to be no cajoling of a musical number today, no dragging Maxim into a spectacle he wanted no part of. If Dimo was going to show that he was capable of winning the Not As Much of a Jerk as You Could Have Been award, today was going to be about the music, and pouring himself into it. And then, while everyone was still kind of distracted by the music, acting. He just wasn’t sure exactly how yet.

Try as he might to keep the day’s playlist to more general pieces with a variety of tempos to keep things interesting for himself and the audience, Dimo couldn’t resist throwing a favorite piece in, though as with most everything else today, he kept his attention on the crowd gathered around him outside. So, to the delight of a couple of students who recognized the tune as soon as he started pulling the bow across the strings, he went on ahead into “Pala Tute”.

“Caravan is coming, old guitar’s a-strumming, chief is sitting high with gold across his chest--” he tapped his foot along in time, and soon the small crowd was as well. Each new verse brought more joining in on the rhythm (including, from what he could see with a sidelong glance into the shop, Oggie the baker), until he had clapping as well as foot-stomping, and a couple of folks even dancing with one another for a brief moment until the chorus was done, and he came into the last verse.

“--because they like the kissing as much as we do!” Grinning, he finished with a flourish, and the audience erupted into applause. He rewarded himself for a good set with a long sip of coffee as they left tips in the case, and a couple even bought CDs. Before every last one could be snatched up by the audience, though, he grabbed the one that was the least battered, and fished around in vain for some sort of pen that wasn’t a permanent marker. There wasn’t one. Crap. He’d have to ask inside.

Trying to trail as few audience members as possible, he retreated inside to a corner table with his coffee and his fiddle case. Nonchalant. Sure. He could do that, and not feel like he was being stared at the whole time. Maybe an excuse to get a second cup of coffee or something? That sounded good. Then he had a reason to be at the counter and could easily borrow a pen while the coffee was being poured. His usual didn’t take that much time to make, but with luck, it would be enough for him to scrawl his name and ten digits onto the corner of the cardboard CD sleeve, and slide it over to the barista without too many other people noticing.

Maxim looked a little surprised when he came up to the counter, but didn’t say much of anything except to ask him what he wanted. Dimo thought that the barista looked as though there were half a dozen things he wanted to say, none of them complimentary. He hoped that his own smile was at least somewhat apologetic, or at least friendly. Once it was ordered and the barista’s back was to him, Dimo’s hand darted forward to the pen on the upper lip of the cash register. As quickly as he could, he scribbled his name and phone number onto sleeve, and after a second’s thought, the number of his hotel room for good measure.

“You never have more than one cup of coffee,” the barista commented as he handed the cup across the counter.

“Hey, first time for everything,” Dimo hedged, “and I figure that maybe I should give you guys more business for putting up with me every damned day.” When was the best moment? Money, coffee--hell, there wasn’t a good point to do it. As surreptitiously as he could, Dimo slid the CD into Maxim’s hand. Maxim, in turn, hesitated, looked down at the signed corner, then back up at him.

“I don’t want your autograph.”

Dimo fought the urge to roll his eyes. “You might want this one,” he said, hoping that the numbers weren’t too small to read. “Save it for later.” And with that, he disappeared back outside, new coffee in hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yep, there's another chapter! I couldn't help myself. More of the Dimo and Maxim Coffeeshop AU! Have some more scheming by Dimo.

The bus had come and gone. He wasn’t on it. That was a first. Dimo had even had to turn around the “do not disturb” sign on his doorknob to read “room service please”, and that never happened. Hell, he was almost to the point where he’d have to go to the coin laundry. That was usually his last stop before the night before the bus depot, but the familiar ritual of washing his meager wardrobe (with some spare change going toward fabric softener if he felt like treating himself), then having a beer or three while bundling everything up to fit in his knapsack, wasn’t going to right now. 

The laundry did happen, of course. It was going to have to, with as musky and rank as it was starting to smell. Dimo walked the five blocks to the 24 hour laundromat with the duffel bag of dirty clothing slung over his shoulder and a can of horribly cheap beer in the pocket of his cargo pants. There were a few students from the college in the place, but nobody that he knew, which was almost a relief. While there were certain people he hoped to see soon, he didn’t want to see them right now, at 2 in the morning on a Wednesday at the laundromat. Once everything was loaded into an industrial washer, he found a seat in a corner, popped open his drink, and checked his phone. No texts yet from anyone, much less from a specific Someone. Dimo stuck the phone back in his pocket, and considered taking a short nap while he waited for the wash to be done. A faded back issue of a local advertising circular lay abandoned on the chair next to his, though, and he couldn’t resist flipping through it. What he was looking for, except some distraction from the tedium of waiting, Dimo couldn’t really say. It certainly wasn’t invigorating reading by any standard. He flipped idly through the ads and out-of-date coupons, but found himself pausing at the “help wanted” ads.

 

He knew that there had to be at least one place in town with few scruples and a desire for under-the-counter labor. His lack of ID or an address would normally make extra employment harder, but the seedy dive bar that was looking for a dish washer, Othar’s, didn’t care, so long as he showed up and wasn’t drunk on the job. By the early afternoon he had a few shifts lined up for himself, starting that night. In preparation, Dimo headed back to his room for a nap. He was sacrificing this afternoon’s busking for it, but if he wanted the extra cash, he would have to forgo it for today. 

The sleep was deep enough that Dimo didn’t immediately awaken when the alarm from his phone began to beep. I was only once the volume had started to increase that he growled at the offending piece of technology and grabbed it to turn the damned thing off. Dimo showered and dressed quickly enough despite the lingering drowsiness, and shoved the phone into his jacket pocket and headed off to Othar’s. He didn’t even bother to check it for messages this time.

At break, curious and in need of something to look at besides dishes, Dimo pulled his phone out and flipped it open. There was one text from an unfamiliar number.

“Hey asshole, where the fuck were you today?”

Dimo grinned, and planned what to send back.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to hear what you thought! What would you like to see me write more of--smut, fluff, angst? What was your favorite part, or a line that you think I ought to use in the future? Please share--I dearly love feedback. <3


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